


Inappropriate Laughter in the Workplace

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Boxers, Briefs, and Other Shorts [22]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Fix-It, M/M, SHIELD Husbands, Soul Bond, bond marks, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 03:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12856182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Agent Phillip J Coulson is killed in the line of duty during the Battle of New York, at least according to Director of SHIELD Nick Fury. Lucky for Clint, the bond he shares with his husband and soulmate means he knows better.





	Inappropriate Laughter in the Workplace

Blue. 

Pale, ice blue. 

Nothing cuts through it until the pain does; the vicious, searing pain that stabs through his chest like a knife. 

It breaks Loki's hold on him, brings him swinging up into a world of color and confusion and fear, Natasha standing over him blank-faced and angry, but it's not the blow to the head, not her cognitive recalibration that does it. 

It's the soul-sense of feeling his bond-mate murdered. 

The only mercy Clint Barton has ever been afforded in life is that he promptly blacks out again. 

The next time he wakes up, he isn't expecting to, but the reassuring double-thump of his heart in his chest enables him to breathe again. He's strapped to a bed in SHIELD HQ, and Natasha is standing beside him, and he blinks rapidly as he tries to clear his head, tries to follow their conversation without panicking. 

Phil, Phil had been... 

Had been what? 

What the hell had happened, where was he? 

He manages to bite the questions back, because no one, not even Natasha knows that Phil Coulson is his soul-bonded, that he can feel the other man's emotions and physical distress as easily and viscerally as he can feel his own. 

Natasha lets him up and he makes his escape into the bathroom, claws his leather uniform off his chest and away from his skin and stares, _stares_ into the mirror. 

His bond-mark is starkly pale against his tanned skin, the blue and black and silver nearly bled from the seal. It sits just over his heart, the same place that Phil's can be found, a SHIELD emblem in which the eagle has been replaced with a hawk, an arrow clutched in its talons. It had burned itself onto his skin from the inside out the first time that Phil had touched him, singing pain like fire that was nothing compared to the burn he feels now, the ache in his chest that crushes his ribs and steals his breath from his lungs. 

He'd told Natasha it was a tattoo when he'd recruited her all those years ago, and then later anyone else who'd asked. It was close enough to the official SHIELD insignia that it could pass, and you could bet that no one, ever, had seen Phillip J Coulson's naked chest except his husband. 

Yeah, husband – they'd gotten married less than two years after they'd soul-bonded out of the blue that night in London in the rain, when Phil had finally caught up with the elusive Hawkeye by putting a bullet in his leg. Clint had laughed his ass off when, a few moments later, the sexy agent-in-a-suit had offered him a hand up and promptly crumpled to his knees, phantom pain coursing up his own leg from an invisible wound. Two years, two years they spent dancing around each other after that; teasing, testing, until they'd clashed in a meeting of hearts and hard-ons that had led to an impromptu elopement and a pair of gold rings more treasured than anything either of them possessed. 

Between the rings and the soul marks though, the soul marks will always win out. They're infinitely useful, allowing both Clint and Phil to sense the other's emotions and, more importantly physical ails. Helpful, for example, when Clint is trying to figure out just how close he is to crossing the line between amusing and annoying, or when Phil is trying to get an accurate reading on whether or not Clint really is ready to check out of medical. 

Or, you know, like now, when the small traces of color still clinging to the lines of the mark are the only thing that tell Clint for sure that his husband and soul-bonded is still alive. 

But he is, he is alive – Clint can feel it in his own heartbeat, in his own aching chest and his own labored breathing, so he follows Nat and he follows the Captain and puts thoughts of his husband behind him. 

They team up with SHIELD, with Iron Man and Thor and the Hulk, and they battle the Chitauri for New York and they win. As much death and destruction as they cause, they win. All the time Clint fires his arrows through the pain, the swooping up and down as Phil clings to life, as his heart stutters out only to leap back to life again, and each and every time Clint has to stop and gasp, has to lock his knees and pray to his gods, just please, _please..._

But every time he pulls through, every time he claws his way back, and Clint gets the distinct feeling that his battle isn't the only one he's fighting. 

By the time Tony Stark simultaneously stuns and saves the world by flying a nuke into a black hole, the familiar heartbeat that constantly ghosts behind his own has stabilized, weak but steady, and Clint can very nearly breathe again. Stark gathers them up and herds them downtown to a half-destroyed little shawarma shop, buys the place out, and he drops into a chair like his strings have been cut, exhausted. 

He's mechanically chewing something that tastes like sawdust when Fury comes striding in, half turned on his chair toward Natasha and slumped over because he's too tired and achy to sit up straight. He knows something's wrong – wrong, of course it's wrong – but he isn't expecting the Director to do what he does, isn't expecting him to throw Phil's cards down onto the table, covered in blood, and open his mouth to tell the shittiest lie he's ever told. 

"Agent Phil Coulson was killed today in the line of duty, during the Battle of New York," he rumbles, and his words boom in Clint's ears as if he's speaking from the bottom of a well. "His longest-held beliefs were that heroes still exist in this world. Do not disrespect his memory." 

Clint can't help it – he barks a laugh. 

It's genuine; really he's not surprised that Fury's pulling this crap, but it's still funny as hell. 

Of course, if he weren't Phil's soul-bonded, if he didn't _know,_ with everything he is that Phil is still alive, it wouldn't be. 

But he is, and he does, so he doesn't try to stop the half-hysterical sound that comes bubbling up out of his chest, shakes his head and takes another bite of his pita sandwich, still chuckling. 

"Clint," Natasha murmurs, but Clint rolls his eyes, takes another bite so he doesn't say anything stupid. 

To his credit Fury almost looks uncomfortable, and he drops his hand awkwardly to Clint's shoulder but he shrugs out from underneath it, the anger suddenly boiling up in him hot and poisonous. 

What right does he have to do this thing, to make them think that Coulson's dead, to make _Clint_ think... 

But it doesn't matter – he knows better – and as Fury goes stomping out in a swirl of black leather Clint just huffs his strange, bitter amusement into his hummus. 

"Phil Coulson was a good man," Steve Rogers says quietly, and this time Clint actually snickers, dropping his food to clutch at his bruised ribs, much to the disapproving looks of his teammates. 

"Not cool Barton," Stark grumbles, glaring at him from across the table. "Capsicle's right – Agent Agent was a good guy." 

"He still is," Clint shrugs, getting to his feet and swiping Stark's Pepsi for a long, cool sip. "Don't worry about Coulson man - Fury's full of shit." 

Nat is looking at him and there's pity in her eyes – she thinks Clint is pining for long unrequited love and he gets that, he does. He and Phil have always kept their relationship quiet, their marriage and their soul-bond a closely held secret in a world where every vulnerability is one to be exploited. She doesn't know, doesn't understand even though he'd tried to tell her, and now... 

"Clint," she tries again, more sternly this time, but Clint just shakes his head. 

"Come on Nat, I need to see medical," he says, and then he's walking out leaving the rest of Phil's ragtag team of superheroes behind him. 

He doesn't make it out the door quick enough to miss her last words though, spoken in a voice full of well-hidden grief and resignation. 

"Leave it Stark. I'll get him to psych – he just needs some time." 

Time. 

Sure, he'll give Fury time. 

He'll let him play this little game, see where it leads them, but time? 

He'll give him till April fourth. 

April fourth, and gods help him if he hasn't come clean by then.

**AVAVA**

Four weeks.

Four weeks and they eventually get the city cleaned up and mostly on track again. 

It's not quite the same, not quite there yet, but that's only fair – they'd done some serious damage in fending off the alien invasion. With international donations pouring in though, and with a pile of money forked over from Stark Industries, as well as the efforts of the Avengers themselves heading the physical clean up, they get it done. 

Four weeks and they finally get the chance to breathe again, and suddenly Clint finds himself moved in to Stark Tower, renamed Avengers Tower and redesigned with each of them in mind. Having cut his teeth in the circus and found his footing in SHIELD, Clint knows all about found family and he's down to take what he can get. Seriously, if Stark wants to kit them all out, Clint isn't going to complain. He's a little pissed with Fury at the moment, and he sure as hell doesn't want to go back to any of his and Phil's bolt holes right now. 

Besides, he likes the guy. 

He's good people. 

"Hey, so listen Birdie, the Spider says you and Agent Agent were close," Stark begins awkwardly, his fingers tapping nervously against his coffee mug the way Clint's never do. "I wanted... I mean, Pepper thought a memorial service might be nice. They were close, I guess." 

And well, he just looks so stiff, so affronted, and he's trying so hard to be cool even as his genuine heart shines through his eyes that Clint can't help but chuckle. 

"That'd be really nice Tony," he agrees, squeezing the billionaire's shoulder and using his first name for the first time. "He likes you too, you know." 

Clint sees the frown on Tony's face but there's nothing he can do. Of course he caught Clint's use of the present tense; he is a genius after all. He's tried to tell them, tried to make them understand, but Natasha's told them too, told them that Clint's dealing with stuff, that he's stable but needs some time. 

He must seem cold, seem nasty, to be laughing in the face of another man's death, but he doesn't really know how else to deal.

**AVAVA**

Two and a half months.

Two and a half months and things are almost normal again. 

They're a kind of weird little family now, all of them living and fighting together, saving the world on Tuesdays and marathoning Star Wars on Thursdays. 

Clint likes them, he does, all of them for different reasons, but there's still one very important person missing, a painful gap in their network. 

A vicious hole in his heart. 

"Clint?" 

"Hey Cap," Clint huffs, stopping the treadmill he's running on and grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat off his face. "What's up?" 

"I, um..." the supersoldier mumbles, blushing and rubbing the back of his neck, putting Clint on high alert. "I wanted to ask you something." 

"Shoot." 

Fidgeting, Cap reaches into the pocket of his khakis and pulls out an honest-to-god leather billfold, opens it up and pulls out some very familiar trading cards. 

"I just, I had these," he explains, handing them over to Clint who fans them out in his hands reverently. 

"Damn Steve," he breathes, "Where the hell did you get these? Do you know how much these things are worth?" 

"I didn't ask," Steve frowns, shifting uncomfortably. "I had them, from before. They got returned, with a bunch of other stuff... I know Agent Coulson had some." 

"All of these," Clint agrees, anger sparking off in the pit of his belly. "Plus, you've got the 1945 Christmas Special." 

"He asked me to sign them," Steve says quietly, "When I first met him..." 

"Yeah," Clint snickers, the memory of the retelling coming up warm and bright and washing the anger away. "Yeah, he'll never be able to live that one down." 

Cap looks at him strangely, takes a step back, then firms up his shoulders and lifts his chin. 

"They were ruined, when he..." he falters, swallowing hard. "In the Battle. I thought maybe I could sign them, donate them to a museum in his name. Natasha said you were his closest friend; I wondered if you thought he would... be alright with that." 

Clint stares at him, stunned, then barks a laugh. 

"Alright?" he exclaims, thumping Steve heartily between the shoulder blades, even as he tries to back away uncomfortably. "Hell Steve, he's gonna love that!"

**AVAVA**

Six months.

Six months without Phil, and it _sucks._

Clint stares at his bond-mark every night, tracks its progress, _Phil's progress,_ and it's finally back to full color; bright white, rich blue, deep black. 

It's as healthy as it's ever been and he's happy about that ok, he is. It's obviously taken a long time for Phil to get back to full health, and Clint's been with him there with him every step of the way, fighting through the mirror pain, sending whatever strength he can across their bond, even though he knows it doesn't work like that. 

He's been there, with him, but he hasn't, and that part just... 

It _sucks._

He isn't sure why Phil hasn't spilled the beans yet, but he trusts his husband's judgment. 

Fury, Fury he doesn't trust so much. 

He still hasn't come clean to the Avengers, and Natasha is starting to push him. 

'You need to talk to someone Clint.' 

'You need to move on Clint.' 

'You need to get back out there Clint.' 

That last one makes him laugh. 

Like, full-bellied, out-and-out laugh. 

He's never once, in all the years she's known him, gone on a date. Well of course he hasn't, he was married! He flirts, sure - with Phil, with her, with everyone else - and she'd seen that, so maybe that alone had been enough? 

But a date... 

That suggestion is the funniest thing he's heard in months.

**AVAVA**

Nine months.

Nine months and Fury finally calls the Avengers together, finally calls them into SHIELD for a meeting, and Clint is practically vibrating out of his skin. 

Nine months is pushing it. 

But he hasn't brought them there to tell the truth, hasn't brought them there to give Phil back to them. 

No, it's some kind of sick, sick game he's playing, trying to force a new liaison on the Avengers, some half-green Agent Chen, and Clint kinda maybe cracks up a little. 

He clocks Fury a good one on the jaw, starts cursing him out and snarling at him, giving him hell for trying to replace Phil instead of just coming clean and bringing Phil back in, and it takes Steve and Thor both to hold him back. 

"Phil Coulson was killed in the Battle of New York," Fury snarls, leaning heavily on the table and rubbing his jaw, and Clint fucking _cackles_ because _no shit._

What about the rest of it asshole?! 

"Romanov," Fury warns, and Nat touches his wrist, her eyes begging the way they never do. 

"Clint..." 

"April fourth, you lying son of a bitch," Clint bites out, going dead still so that Thor hesitantly releases him from the circle of his arms. "You get till April fourth to produce Phil fucking Coulson, or I'm gonna rein hell like you've never seen." 

"Phil Coulson died..." 

"Yeah yeah yeah," Clint mutters loudly, turning on his heel to leave the room, "But he sure as hell didn't stay that way, did he?"

**AVAVA**

The Avengers mostly avoid him after that.

He doesn't blame them – they think he's completely off his rocker, refusing to accept reality, and how do you deal with someone like that, how do you interact? 

Natasha does her best, continuously tries to push him into therapy and constantly corrects his use of the present tense when referring to Phil, but he won't break. 

He could tell them, he supposes, he could _show_ them, but he doesn't want to. 

Somehow it feels like a betrayal, and even though he's leaving them in suspense, in a state of grief for a man who's not really dead, something in him knows that he needs his secret more than they do. 

April fourth comes on them fast – eleven months, and nearly an entire year since the Battle, since he'd been brought back to a world of living color by the sensation of his husband's heart being run through by an alien-god's sharpened scepter. 

He doesn't worry about the date passing, doesn't even make a plan to exact his revenge on Fury. He trusts his soulmate; Phil Coulson has never once allowed their bonding day to pass unremarked. 

Another memo goes out, unsigned this time, and they're brought in and sequestered away in a little conference room away from major foot-traffic, and Clint can tell that the rest of the Avengers are nervous, confused about what's going on, but Clint is fucking ecstatic and bouncing on his heels, a huge grin on his face. 

"Would you sit the hell down Legolas?" Tony grumbles, his forcibly holding himself still against the wall. "You're giving me hives." 

"Shut up," Clint laughs with a grin, even though he knows they don't understand. "I've waited eleven months for this, I can..." 

He doesn't get to finish. 

From the hallway the sound of a struggle thumps dully against the wall, fist against flesh, body against carpet, and then the door is opening and Senior Agent Phillip J Coulson is striding through, grim-faced and shrugging his jacket back into place across his shoulders. He ignores the stunned faces and horrified gasps of the Avengers, walks right up to Clint where he's standing in the middle of the room, vibrating with want and excitement and painful, aching happiness. 

"Hello husband," he murmurs softly, staring into Phil's gorgeous eyes as his heart tries to grow too big for his chest. 

"God damn it Coulson! You..." 

Neither of them spare Nick a glance. 

They're too busy kissing, too busy grabbing on tight and holding each other close, Clint's hands fisting the lapels of Phil's suit, yanking him close, closer, _closer..._

"What the fuck is this?" Fury growls, sounding more confused than he's ever sounded in his life, and Clint grins against Phil's lips, finally pulling back for a breath as his chest heaves. 

"I'm sorry," Phil whispers, voice cracking as he cups Clint's jaw in his palm, thumb brushing back and forth across his cheekbone. "Baby, I am so fucking sorry, I..." 

"Hey, hey," he murmurs, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his lips, stroking his hand down Phil's side. "It's ok. I knew you were ok, I knew you were still alive." 

Leaning forward, he drops his forehead against Phil's, laughs softly as the tears finally roll free. 

"I knew you wouldn't miss our bonding day." 

_"BONDING..."_

"Show me," Phil begs, and Clint's actually a little alarmed by the desperation in his voice, the need. "Please. Clint, I... mine is... I just need to see it." 

"Yeah, yeah, of course," he nods quickly, already tugging at the zips and buckles of his tac vest. Phil's hands join his, all shaky and urgent, and together they get it off him and then he's dragging his undershirt off over his head and Phil's hands are flat on his chest, fingers warm and rough and spanning the whole of his bond-mark, centered directly over his heart. 

He can _feel_ the relief, not only in Phil's body against his own but as it thrums down their bond, an overwhelming sense of calm and rightness. Phil sags against him, collapses against his chest, Clint's frame the only thing holding him up as he presses his cheek to Clint's ribs, listening to his heartbeat and staring at the mark beneath his fingers as Clint rubs his back reassuringly. 

"It's gone," he whispers, and Clint doesn't need an explanation to know what he means. He'd felt the scepter enter his own chest as surely as his husband had felt it, can only imagine what the scar had done to _his_ bond-mark. "It's hardly there anymore, and I couldn't... I didn't know..." 

_"I_ did," Clint murmurs, rubbing his cheek against the top of Phil's head, wrapping his arms around him. "I knew. Knew you were out there, knew you would come back to me." 

"But I..." 

"But nothing," Clint argues, leaning back and taking Phil's face in his hands. "You came back to me. That's all that matters Phil. This?" 

Carefully, so carefully, he lays his hand against Phil's chest, scar thick and knotted beneath his shirt, and feels his heart _pounding._

"This doesn't change anything. You're still my soul-bonded, even if your soul mark's a little scuffed up. Hell, always thought I'd mess mine up but good – didn't really think it would be _you."_

Phil chuckles, a hurt, burbling little sound but it's better, it's better. Clint smiles, squeezes him tight, then reaches for his discarded vest and pulls a thin chain from the pocket. He holds it up and it catches the light, the two gold bands hanging from it glinting. Reverently, he slips it over his husband's head, uses it to pull him close into another kiss. 

"You wear the rings," he says, their lips brushing. "I'll wear the bond-mark." 

A smile cracks across his face and he laughs, big and bright and happy, rocking Phil side-to-side in his embrace. 

"God I've missed you!" he grins, and Phil smiles back at him, runs his hand down Clint's bare chest. 

"Let's take a vacation," he says, abruptly and very seriously, and for all of two seconds Clint just stares in silence, before he cracks up with hysterical laughter.


End file.
